


Sometimes Trying Just Isn’t Enough

by Vrunka



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of rough sex, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Uncomfortable self-discovery, Unrequited Preston/Female Sole Survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 14:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Preston is trying to be a good person. Making his way through a ruined world, a shell of things. He keeps the faith that there are other good people out there; others who are trying.Hancock is specifically not one of those people.





	Sometimes Trying Just Isn’t Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayfishman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayfishman/gifts).



> This took almost a whole year to finish and for that I’m sorry!! Commission for Gayfishman, hope I did these boys justice.

It's not like Preston rushes when word gets to him that the Vault Dweller is looking for him. “Possible Minutemen Intervention,” the girl with limp, lank hair had said, passing along the message, dirt on her face, in the creases of her eyes. Preston doesn't rush; but he shows all due hurry that such a message should be shown.

If the Minutemen are needed, then he wants to be there.

The sooner.

The better.

And the fact that it's Nora asking...well. It's not her needing that has him rushing, that's for sure. Absolutely not.

She's calling him on business.

And business is what he expects.

So when he arrives at her place in Diamond City and the door is ajar already and there are voices coming from within; he's more than a little surprised. When he pushes it open and steps inside with a tentative greeting already half-formed on his lips and he sees her and the state she is in; he is shocked.

Nora, the Vault Dweller, the only survivor, his General, looks up. The jet inhaler trembles in her hand. Mentats scattered on the table in front of her, two tins open, their contents spilled like guts across the surface.

Hancock looks up too. He doesn't move his hand from where he is cupping her thigh. Fingers against the skin, pressing in. The hem of her dress just touching his knuckles. Hancock's eyes sparkle. Glittering.

Preston doesn't know what to do. It's suddenly stifling. Too hot in his hat and scarf. The air thick. Embarrassment clogging his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he says. The apology is knee-jerk, he doesn't mean it, he isn't sorry. "I should have. That is I--"

Hancock snorts. Derisive. Preston recognizes when he is being made fun of. The rotten skin on Hancock's face shifts, he grins wide, a hint of teeth.

Nora, for her part, looks embarrassed too. But her pupils are wide, wide, wide, she's already mostly gone. The jet taking her up and up and away.

"Preston," she says. Her voice is huskier than usual. Hancock's fingers on her thigh, her inner thigh. Like a brand. Preston can almost feel it on his own skin. "I wasn't...expecting you."

"Kid came to confess his love finally," Hancock says. Teasing still. Preston hates him, sudden and bright. "Oops, I guess. Him catching us like this certainly is unfortunate."

"Hancock." Admonition. Bleary as it is. Like her tongue is too thick. It's only now that she removes his hand, shoves it down toward her knee and away. She licks her lips. Her eyelids flutter. "Don't mind him, he's..."

"I'm not minding him."

"Rude."

"Shut up, Hancock. General...I thought you wanted to-to-to see me," Preston says. "I got your message and I--"

"Came running to your side. How sweet he is," Hancock says. Leaning close to her. The shell of his nose brushes her ear and Preston's skin crawls.

He does his best. Ghouls are people too, good people, unlucky sons of bitches, but good people. Hancock, he's a different story.

Nora pushes him away again. Hauls herself to standing. She sways and even though he is mad at her, Preston finds himself reaching out to steady her. Her hands are clammy. He can feel it even through his duster, the sweat-slick skin of her palms.

The jet lies on the vacated couch as an accusation until Hancock sweeps it up, disappears it into his coat.

"I didn't think you'd be here tonight," Nora says. She leans against him. Licks her lips again. Shiny and pink and Preston wishes, he really wishes, these were different circumstances. "You must have beaten some sort of record, flying across the commonwealth like that."

"I thought you..." he trails off. Eyes flickering away from her. A mistake. His gaze lands on Hancock who hears the end of the sentence Preston can't bring himself to say.

To be needed, by her, is all he wants in the world.

And now Hancock knows it, if he somehow hadn't before. Hancock looks away and Preston feels himself blushing again.

"Maybe you should just rest tonight, General," he says. His hands are locked on her elbow, still keeping her steady. "We can...talk about the Minutemen in the morning."

Her eyes close.

She nods.

"Okay," she says. "Yeah. That's...a good idea." She looks over her shoulder to Hancock. There is a bruise on her neck, just over her pulse point. A darker shadow in the dark expanse of her skin.

Preston's stomach rolls. He doesn't need to ask to know that it matches Hancock's mouth. He doesn't need to think about it either. He doesn't need the hurt. But it stings in his gut regardless. Wanted or not.

"You can go too," she says to Hancock. He looks up at her. Expressionless. Then he nods.

"You got it."

No argument, Preston is almost surprised. Nora's gaze moves back to him, the hickey is lost once more in the shadow of her chin.

"You'll walk him home for me right," she asks, "it's..."

Not safe for ghouls still. Even ones as sure of themselves as Hancock.

Preston nods. Swallows. "Sure thing," he says. Anything. He is weak to her everything.

Hancock is already strolling for the door. Preston cannot linger. He squeezes Nora's elbow once, a coward's way out. Then he goes.

"You don't actually gotta walk me anywhere," Hancock says, sighing. The city, like most, isn't totally inactive at night, but it has slowed down. There are shadows. Thick enough to be living things.

Preston shakes his head. "It's not a problem."

The answer doesn't seem to satisfy. Hancock's shoulders stiffen.

They walk on in silence. Acute, dragging discomfort.

Preston cannot seem to turn his mind off. His thoughts cycle and recycle over Nora and how he feels and how he felt seeing Hancock's hand slipping up under her dress.

"You think too loud, you know that?"

Prestons flinches. Shakes his head. He doesn't know what to say. He respects Hancock, always has, but they've never been friends. There's always been a divide. Now it feels like a chasm. Uncrossable. Preston hadn't even considered competition.

Nora flirting with him had been just that. Nora flirting. Meaningless. Preston feels childish for misreading her intentions, feels like he's violated something between them.

"Would it make you feel better if I tell you it's not what you think?" Hancock asks. His hands shift as he walks. Preston hadn't noticed before, the way he wrings them together. Nervous, in a way. Diamond City or this whole mess, Preston isn't sure which is causing it.

"Is it not what I think? Looked pretty obvious if you ask me."

"Mm. Well. Probably is what you think then."

They are approaching the Dugout. Hancock's walk slows, dallying. He looks to the side, still uncomfortable. "She...I don't think she intended you to find out that way," Hancock offers.

"None of my business anyway."

"No, it's not. But you're important to her in a way that...well, that I'm not, exactly. She uhhh. She values your opinion and your straight-laced morals." Hancock grins. "I'm just some casual fuck, okay? It's not...serious. She wouldn't want it to be. She wouldn't want you thinking it is."

Hancock shrugs. His fingers twiddle. Preston doesn't know what he's supposed to do with that confession. He motions to the inn, tips head toward it.

"We're here."

"I'm not staying the night in this city if I don't gotta. Hate this place, honestly I do. Bad memories."

"Oh. Right." Preston feels foolish and cruel for forgetting.

"Don't sweat it. You were trying to be helpful."

"Trying being the operative word."

Hancock chuckles. He claps a hand on Preston's shoulder. The weight is warm, and heavier than Preston expects. Close as they are Preston can smell Hancock's breath. Fruity, like Mama Murphy's after a vision, orange mentats aren't her favorite, but it's what people provide her with the most.

"You're alright, you know that?"

Preston's turn to shrug, so he does. 

"Keep her safe tomorrow," Hancock continues.

Preston nods. "You know I will."

Hancock nods, grins, the skin of his cheeks seems to stretch unnaturally. "I know. Night, Garvey."

\--

Preston dreams that night of Ghouls. Of Ferals. Ripping teeth and distended bellies. They say in the Captial Wastes there are entire underground systems filled with them, poor souls gone mad living down there in the dark.

He dreams of Hancock, snarling, drooling. Madness. Consuming him. Hancock's teeth scraping over his chest. Over Nora's; her eyes glassy. Fucked out. Gone flying on jet again. Her throat bared, blood in the dust. Hancock bloated with his feast.

Consuming.

Preston dreams, uneasily.

And when wakes he remembers nothing of it beyond the slight turning of his stomach. A feeling of dread, of displacement.

His erection he writes off as nothing more than coincidence.

He ignores it. He presses on. He returns to Nora's house, loiters outside until she comes to find him.

\--

"What are you doing here?" Hancock asks. Goodneigbor buzzes around them. Someone bumps into Preston, hard enough he has to take a step closer to Hancock or end up face-down in the dirt.

"The Vault Dweller send you?"

She hasn't. Preston has not seen Nora for three days. Not since the Minutemen job she'd found for him had been completed. Succinct and clean and quick. The way Preston likes.

They had not discussed the other night. The awkward parting. Hancock. They both had pretended it hadn't happened. Better that way. Working colleagues and nothing more.

Efficient. Succinct. Clean.

"No..." Preston shrugs, digs his hands into the pocket of his duster. "Just thought I should...see you's all."

"See me?" Hancock chuckles. A grating noise, his throat clicking with it. "Miss my handsome face that much, Garvey? Guess I'm flattered. No accounting for taste, I suppose."

"I didn't mean like that."

Or had he.

He hasn't been able to shake the images. Hancock's hand on Nora's thigh. Hancock's teeth against her throat.

Hancock takes him at face value however. Same way Nora does. He shrugs, hands drifting to pull an assortment of bottles from within his coat.

"That Old Lady Murphy of yours need a fix?" Hancock asks. "You're too righteous to ask it, I know. So you just gotta nod if that's the case."

Preston looks away. Down to the ground. His feet in the dust, boots muddy and worn. He'll need new ones soon. He glances to Hancock's feet. He'll need new ones soon too.

"It's not that either," he says.

He looks up in time to see Hancock's expression waver, a slight catch of worry before he settles on something more neutral. He grins, claps a hand on Preston's shoulder again. It is as warm and as heavy as Preston remembers from the other night.

"Okay, then, Garvey, my man. Let's get us somethin' to drink, huh?"

Preston licks his lips. A drink...a drink might be just what he needs. He nods and follows when Hancock sets off down the street.

\--

A drink.

"You can slug me, you know," Hancock is saying. Leaning close across the table. "I'd slug me if I'd walked in on what you did."

Present looks down at his glass. Filmy from age, from countless uses and irradiated washing water. No longer clear but foggy.

He pushes it away from himself and into the four others lined up in a row on his side of the table.

A drink had rapidly descended into two. Five. What's the difference?

Preston shakes his head. "I don't want to hit you," he says.

"Yeah, probably end up with more of my face smeared across your fist than you'd like."

"That's not what I mean."

"You're always correcting the meaning of things. You read too much into that stuff, kid. People are gonna take it however they're gonna take it." Maybe Hancock is drunk. His words slur a little. His eulogy loses some of its potency.

Preston blinks. Drunk himself, he can feel the edges of it, not too far gone. Hancock seems more out of it.

"I still don't wanna hit you," Preston says. "She's...she's a grown woman. She makes her own choices."

Hancock grins. His fingers drum on the table top. He doesn't have fingernails. Rotted away. The realization is a little jarring. Preston looks at his face.

"That's pretty big of you to admit. Watchin' you crush so hard, I almost wouldn't have expected it."

"You don't have to say it like that."

"Don't I though? You're gonna take it however you're gonna take it." Hancock swipes a hand across his face. His fingers rasp over the hole of his nose, the shell, completely unaffected.

Preston swallows.

He doesn't know how to do this. He's never known how to do this. Nora was the closest he's come in a long time and there was something...something sterile and systematic in his love for her. His devotion. She was something for him to believe in and three days of facing that maybe she was an ideal and not really herself has been a sobering experience.

Preston bites his lip, slides a hand across the table. Palm up.

Hancock looks down at it. His eyes travel up the length of Preston's arm to his shoulder, to his neck, to his chin, to his eyes.

They stay like that for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Hancock's breathing further fogs the glass he is holding to his lips. "You offering a truce?" he asks.

"I don't think we need a truce. We both want the same thing, right?"

A purpose. Nora has hinted as much, that there is more in common between Hancock and Preston than either would like to admit.

Preston's fingers twitch.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he says. "Would you consider joining the Minutemen?"

"You serious?" Hancock grins. His teeth flash in the wrinkles of his lips. "Bunch a goody-goodies and you think I'd fit in?"

"Better than you're implying, yeah. I think you'd be a damn asset, truth be told."

"You're fuckin' drunk."

"And you aren't?"

Hancock laughs again. The glass slams against the table. The bartender glares at them; a warning. Preston holds up an apologetic hand.

"You aren't serious," the ghoul accuses. "But I'll play along. Alright?" His palm slides along Preston's; the skin is leathery, tough. Warm. It's not like the bodies Preston has handled. Devoid of life and of heat and usually of a limb or two.

"So I'm a Minuteman now. What do you need from me?"

Preston opens his mouth. Closes it. "A place to sleep tonight," he says.

Hancock's grin falters a little. The corners of his eyes crinkle, more wrinkles in his flesh. "That it?"

He means it innocuously, but Preston can follow the arc of possibilities within the statement. His face heats up. He looks down at where there hands are touching.

"Yeah," he says, swallowing around the words. "That's it."

"If I'da known a dirty mattress was enough to earn me the title; maybe I'd have joined your little militia a long time ago, huh?"

A dirty mattress. Nora with her head tilted back and Hancock's teeth worrying the skin under her jaw. Her mouth is open and pink. And Hancock...he looms like some sort of predator.

"I say something wrong? You're looking a little uhh--"

Preston blinks back to the present. To reality and the things that are happening now. Five glasses of watered down whiskey. The wood grain of the table beneath his hand. Hancock's fingers still laying across his palm.

"Sorry," Preston says. Licking his lips. Pulling his hand back into his own lap, dragging it from under Hancock's and across the table. "I'm just..."

"Drunk," Hancock finishes for him.

Preston nods. "Drunk," he agrees.

Cowardly.

\--

The room is pretty basic, all things considered, but there is a couch opposite a leather sofa. Options Preston is not accustomed to. He leans against Hancock because he is drunk and permitted to.

Hancock doesn't smell like oranges today. He smells like clean sweat and dust.

Preston hates how aware of it he is.

"I mean," Hancock is saying, "there's plenty of rooms uhhh down the other end too, if you'd be more comfortable in a bed but...well...It's not that I don't trust my dear citizens of Goodneighbor, but uhhh..."

He trails off. His fingers squeeze Preston's side. When he tips his head, he knocks Preston's hat somewhat askew.

"Here we got protection, is all I'm saying so..."

Preston nods. He gets it, he does. Times are tough and it's easy to talk righteous (shit doesn't he know that) but it's a lot harder to act it and open pockets are invitation Preston would rather not offer.

"Couch is fine. If it's got pillows it's better than out in the wastes."

He stumbles away from Hancock, feet catching just a little. Five glasses of whiskey, watered down or not, is still five glasses his body wasn't exactly expecting. Hancock's hand stays firmly on his back until he is steady again.

"You're a weird one," Hancock says. "You know that?"

"I've been told it. Optimistic is the word I like better."

Hancock chuckles. Rolls his eyes. Preston crosses to the couch. Sort of collapses onto it. The upholstery seems to sigh around him, the old rotted pillows conforming to the shape of him almost instantly. Swallowing him whole.

Hancock watches from the doorway as Preston rolls onto his back. His hand gripping the frame. Silent.

Until he isn't any longer.

"Foolish is the one I'd pick," Hancock says. He looks down at his feet, Preston can't quite read his expression. "Foolish is the word most people would take from optimistic. But...hell, I dunno. If I was her, I woulda picked you and your optimism. For what it's worth."

"What do you mean?"

Hancock grins, still looking down. Maybe it's self-effacing or maybe it's mocking; impossible to tell. "I mean whatever you think I do," he says. "Sleep well, Garvey, don't let the radroaches bite, huh?"

"What about the ghouls," Preston asks before he can stop himself.

Hancock freezes in the doorway. Freezes. Stock still. Something is his jaw ticks. Preston can see it from here.

Hancock takes a breath. Blows it out between his teeth. Eyes closing, shoulders relaxing.

"You're drunker than I thought," he says. "Go the fuck to sleep."

Blown off again. Preston feels his face heat up. His fingers itch. His knees. Did he say it wrong? Approach it wrong? He doesn't know how to do this with grace. He sinks back into the couch. He stares at the ceiling.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

\--

He wakes up in the dark.

Hard in his trousers.

This time, he remembers the dream. Hancock with his hands around his neck, Hancock leveling his weight onto Preston's throat until his airway is shut and the world goes dark.

Dangerous pleasures.

The sort of things he had never considered himself wanting before. Ghouls and asphyxiation and...the threat of more.

Preston pinches the bridge of his nose; turns his hand to press the heel of his palm against his closed eyes. Enough pressure to have him seeing stars. Bursts of colors behind the lids.

His erection stays stubbornly present.

Nothing else to do.

Nothing else to be done.

With his cheeks burning, Preston lifts up enough to shuck his trousers down his legs. His duster splays under him like a blanket, it will keep the couch covered, clean. Or relatively.

Preston draws a breath in through his nose, drops a foot off the couch to brace it against the hardwood. His boot scrapes across the floor, the toe knocks against the table. Preston flinches at the slight sound.

But it doesn't stop him.

He circles a hand around the base of his cock, tries to curl his fingers in a way so the nails don't touch the skin. Like they're missing. The calloused pads and the soft press of his fingers is the only sensation he craves.

But it isn't quite enough.

He thrusts up. The couch creaks. Preston's other hand has not left his eyes; he slides his face into the crook of his elbow as he works over himself.

Not enough.

The coil of lust at the pit of his stomach just rolls and tightens as he fucks his own fist. Touch alone is not good enough, not satisfying. Preston heaves a sigh, explosive in the relative quiet of the room.

He imagines.

Here, in Hancock's home, he imagines Hancock approaching him. Dropping to his knees. His hands, gliding over the quivering flesh of his erection. Warm palms. Callouses from years of gun handling.

He imagines Hancock's face. The sort of mischievous, sort of devious grin he'd be wearing. Teasing. No accounting for taste.

Preston hiccups around a moan. His hand moves faster, dragging too dry down his cock.

He imagines Hancock's teeth at his throat, tracking down to his collarbone--and his free hand mirrors the imagining, fingertips curled to cut his nails across his own flesh. Not quite teeth, but it'll do.

It does.

Preston arches; thinking of Hancock taking a bite, clamping down on a nipple. Preston tosses his head.

Preston comes across his hand and his stomach and the bottom of his wrinkled vest. He comes with a grunt, an aborted sigh. Hancock's name, smothered on his lips. Murdered by his teeth before it can fully form.

He opens his eyes.

Stares up at the ceiling.

His senses are still reeling, rocked by his orgasm. He feels like a synth, booting back to life.

He takes a shaky breath.

Something in the darkness by the doorway moves. Preston hears the shuffling of a footstep. He sits up, shocked out of his lethargy; survival instinct kicking into higher gear. His cock is out. He grabs his rifle without tucking it away.

"Easy, easy," Hancock's familiar voice says. He steps from the shadows, hands out, palm up. Preston cannot look at them.

"Sorry," Hancock says when Preston looks away. "Fahrenheit thought you were...sneaking around. Said she thought you might be..."

"Stealing?" Preston asks. He can't help the tight little twist to his voice. One handed he fixes his trousers, smooths the front of his slacks over his messy cock.

Another thing to add to the list. New boots, new pants. Such is the way of life in the commonwealth.

"Or somethin'," Hancock says. "She's uhh. Maybe not the brightest."

"How long did you watch?"

"Not that long. Got to see the fireworks right? The good part." He's teasing. Preston's fingers tense on his gun. "You don't have to be embarrassed. Happens, right?"

"It doesn't happen to me."

"Yeah...well, clearly it did." Hancock laughs. "Never took you for the type though, no. You jerk off like you just want it to be over."

"That any of your business?"

Hancock grins. Slow and toothy. His irradiated skin shifts, more wrinkles around the hole where his nose had been. "You and I both know it's not.

"Unless it is," Hancock says. Leaning against the doorframe. Making no indication of crossing to Preston. "You've been acting strange. Stranger than normal. I'm not Nora, not good like she is."

Preston forces himself to swallow. Something in his throat catches, clicks, he has to cough into his fist to loosen the sudden tightness.

"You think I'm a soul to be saved? Cuz if that's your motive, I can tell you right now to skip it."

"That's not it."

Preston doesn't, truly, know what it is. But he knows it isn't that.

"It my handsome features?" Hancock cocks a grin. "My silver tongue."

"That what got Nora?"

"Jealousy then. You talked a good game at least."

"I'm not jealous."

He is. But it isn't the right kind of jealous. It's something else.

"I'm...curious."

Hancock laughs. His skin moves in a wave with every chuckle. "Curious."

"Bout that silver tongue."

"You still drunk, Garvey?"

Preston shakes his head. His foot, still on the floor for balance, slides just a little bit. Until his knee touches the table.

"Is this a joke?"

Preston shakes his head again. His cheeks are on fire. His blush is killing him. "It's not. Wouldn't joke about this."

Hancock's chest, skinny, irradiated, trembles with his breathing. "I'm not a good rebound."

"Didn't really ask if you were." Preston scratches his jaw. There is a rash of stubble under his chin, it rasps against his fingertips. "Can't really find it in myself to care."

He swallows. The spread of his legs is an ache in his thigh and his hip. The bulge of his cock at the front of his pants; too soon to get hard again, but it's there, and Hancock is looking so...

Preston looks to the side. "If you were interested that is," he adds.

"Chance to corrupt a goody-goody like you," Hancock smiles. "Course I'm interested."

Preston's turn to grin. Bite his lip. Hancock comes closer. Glides. Swaggers. Confidence Preston himself doesn't quite feel. His stomach is in knots. He doesn't know why.

"Your girl Fahrenheit?"

"Already gone," Hancock says, waving his hand. Dismissive. But Preston trusts him.

He trusts him to care for Nora and that's way more important than this.

"You're full of surprises, you know that, Garvey?"

"You can call me Preston."

"Preston." Hancock clicks his tongue. His knees fill the space between Preston's thigh and the edge of the couch. "Doesn't roll off the tongue as nice."

"Okay."

Hancock grins. He touches Preston's cheek. The fingers are cool compared to Preston's self-generated heat; embarrassment tight across his skin. A thumb drags over his lip. Preston's tongue snakes out, laps at the tip--soft, where the nail should be the skin is ridiculously soft, a callous on the underside, where it would curl around a stock, but for the most part it is as soft as Preston had imagined--and Hancock groans low in his throat.

"Didn't take you for a tease."

"Didn't take me for a lot of things. Didn't think I was the type." Preston leans up, one elbow sinks into the cushions at the back of the couch but he manages to straighten himself into Hancock's space with only one arm.

"Guess I was wrong."

"Guess you were." Preston's chin tracks over Hancock's stomach. Old fabric shifting below him. American colors tickling his throat.

This desire is so alien. Undeniable. Hancock's weight lowers into his lap; one hand braced on the back of the couch, fingers just touching Preston's, brushing, intimate. Undeniable. A knee shoved up into Preston's crotch, all heat and warmth and pressure even through the stiff blue fabric of Hancock's pants.

Undeniable.

Preston's mouth opens.

Hancock fills the space.

His breath his hot, filling Preston's mouth. A precursor. His lips catch on Preston's as Preston snaps his mouth shut. His nose, what is left of it, the hole and the shell and the wrinkled skin beneath, brushes up against Preston's cheek.

Preston's stomach loops and cramps.

He finds himself grabbing at Hancock's shoulder, at his hip. Grounding. Not as good at this as he had proposed.

Not the type.

He exhales, shaky, against Hancock's lips.

This time, the kiss is more expected. Preston can read the telegraphing in the tightening of Hancock's shoulders. The swaying of his weight, thigh moving to lay flat over Preston's cock.

This kiss, what Preston will choose to think of as the first kiss, goes much better.

The realization that Hancock is good at this, really good at this, comes pretty quickly.

He moves his lips gently, teasing Preston's open; little licks, his tongue is warm and wet and

Silver.

Preston hums, his body relaxes, hands soothing from tight and gripping to holding to wandering. He slides the one on Hancock's hip up under the frilled material of the shirt. Hancock's belly is firm beneath his palm, moving with his breathing. It's not paunchy, despite the drugs, the drinking; Hancock's abs are tight, not defined, but not hidden under a layer of fat like Preston would expect from someone with his lifestyle.

Maybe it comes with being a ghoul.

Or maybe he's being unfair, thinking of Hancock's life as cushioned as far as wasteland lives go.

"Thinkin' too loud again, Press," Hancock says, lifting his chin to say it against Preston's temple. "We don't have to do this if you're gonna freak out."

"Not freaking out." He takes a breath. His fingers twitch. "Just different. That's all."

Hancock steps back. For a moment Preston thinks maybe he has said something wrong. But Hancock is grinning. All teeth between his talented lips.

The red coat slithers from his shoulders. The shirt he barely wears anyway--most of the buttons near the top are missing, little threads poking out from the material, ripped free--follows. The color of his skin is really the only distressing part. Just a little too orange.

Left in the sun for too, too long.

"You gonna leave me hanging here," Hancock asks. His hands are already pulling the flag free from his belt loops, undoing the laces down the front of his trousers. He isn't really hard yet either; makes Preston not feel so bad.

Preston blinks. Nods. His jacket is the easiest thing to shed. He doesn't try to remove from under himself, just shrugs out of the shoulders. The vest takes an extra moment, each button fed through the holes, gentle enough not to rip them free. Preston has only just started on the shirt when Hancock's impatient hands force his out of the way.

He tears the material. Buttons fly. Preston's complaint is smothered by Hancock's mouth. His amazing tongue brushing up against Preston's teeth. Controlling, just a little bit. The slightest bit predatory.

"Not that it isn't charming, Press," Hancock says. Lips grazing down Preston's chin, teeth nipping at his jawline. "It's fucking adorable. But I'd rather see your hands put to better use, huh?"

Guiding them as he says it.

To the only place something so cheesy could precursor.

Hancock's cock is heavy. It's the first thought that occurs in Preston's head as the hot, willing, semi-hard flesh fills his palms. It's already so thick and heavy and it isn't even full up yet.

Preston shudders. His fingers twitch, have suddenly lost all feeling. Everything Preston knows about cocks and how to work them flies away, clumsy, spiraling like a bloatfly. He moves his hands over the shaft like he has never touched a cock before in his life. Too rough, his grip and the speed which he sets.

Hancock hisses, his hips saw backwards.

"Sorry," Preston says. Tilting his chin to press a kiss into him. Like it will make up for the discomfort.

"Knew what I was getting into," Hancock murmurs. "Always do. Wouldn't feel right if your were too good at this." His hand, encircling Preston's wrist, tightens, begins to guide again.

“I’m not—usually that is I—“

“It’s okay,” Hancock says. Sterner, rocking his hips in a counter rhythm to the movement of Preston’s hand. “Just follow my lead. You’re good at that, right?”

Always has been. A natural at it. Preston draws a breath in, hissing through his nose. His fingers curl tighter.

The cock in his fist is not really much different than his own. Smooth slide of foreskin and precum, the sensitive glands leaking across Preston’s palm. His knuckles catching against Hancock’s hairless ballsack on every other downstroke.

“Is this—“

“You’re doing fine. Ugh, Christ, better than fine.”

The praise coils in Preston’s throat. Surging little notes of pride. He’s always liked hearing affirmation of his goodness. In this scenario, with Hancock of all goddamn people, it is no different. His cock twitches.

Hancock notices.

Of course Hancock notices.

He grins, fingers sliding over Preston’s scalp, curling in his short-cropped curls. His weight lowers further into Preston’s lap.

“You like hearing that huh,” Hancock says. “Want me to tell you how good you are at stroking my dick? Fuck, Preston, how good you’re making me feel?”

“Yeah?” Preston cocks an eyebrow. His palms are sweating, fingers trembling as he hooks his grip to press his and Hancock’s cocks together.

Hancock chuckles. “Yeah,” he drawls. “Hard again like a horny teenager. That’s amazing.” Hancock chuckles, his breath tickles over Preston’s cheek. Voice catching just slightly, a hitch in his dirty diatribe.

And all of it, all of it goes to Preston’s head. He follows the lead, presses harder, fucks his hips up roughly when Hancock hisses how good it is. When Hancock tells him how hot he looks, how hot it is, sexy and sweating and words that really only Hancock could say without any ounce of irony and make sound good.

Silver-tongued.

Hancock’s own hands are pulling at Preston’s face. Fingers and lips, that soft, wrinkled skin. Tugging on Preston’s tongue, clipping on his teeth.

“Fuck,” Hancock says. “Fuck. Next time I’m gonna—unh gonna fuck your mouth, yeah?” Those fingers shove inward and Preston has to tip his head to keep from gagging. Spit on his chin, sloshing down Hancock’s palm, dripping from his wrist.

Preston rocks the two of them together harder, groaning in earnest.

Hancock is the opposite of everything he could want, of everything he has wanted. He crass and he’s rude, self-absorbed, pragmatic. There’s nothing left to disappoint. They can only go upward from here.

Preston’s eyes close. His fingers twitch around their caged cocks.

They can only go upward from here. Forward. Further.

Upward.


End file.
